Room Service
by Lala Kate
Summary: Tease, Dinner, Champagne...Hmmmmmmm...
1. Chapter 1

_Prompt: MM, tease, dinner, champagne. I hope you enjoy!_

_I do not own Downton Abbey, but I love writing about it so very much. :) Thoughts and reviews always appreciated. _

* * *

"Celebrating something?"

She throws him a glance over her shoulder, and he motions towards the bottle of champagne in her hands.

"Yes," she answers smoothly, tossing him a coy grin. "My divorce."

The woman in front of her sniffs audibly, shaking her head in silent disapproval before the bell sounds and the lift doors open, allowing the lady to exit and leaving her and Mr. Blue Eyes completely alone.

"Are you planning on drinking all of that by yourself?"

She turns towards him just so, licking her lips as she looks him over. No ring, she notes to herself. Of course, they slide off as easily they go on, and fit quite comfortably in men's wallets, as do other items wives are not supposed to find.

"It's safer that way," she muses, the lift's second stop jostling them closer together.

"Perhaps," he muses. "But certainly not as much fun." His gaze falls quietly before those eyes capture hers once again. "I've been there. My divorce was final just over a year ago."

"Ah," she breathes, knowing he could be lying to her but somehow sensing he isn't.

She doesn't speak as the doors open, and she steps off into the carpeted hallway, not really surprised to see that he had done so, as well.

"Are you staying on this floor?" she asks as they stand facing opposite directions.

"Yes," he replies with a smile. "Room 709."

She laughs then, biting her lower lip as she looks back at him.

"I'm in 711," she volunteers. "Just across the hall."

"How convenient," he returns, his eyes turning a shade more suggestive. "May I suggest you not drink all of that on an empty stomach? I made that mistake once."

"That sounds like regret," she tosses back softly.

"Most assuredly," he grins, and she wonders if he is blushing as he falls in step beside her.

"I thought I might order room service," she offers. "So convenient when savory treats are delivered right to your door."

"Isn't it, though?" he hums, stopping just outside their rooms. "I was thinking of ordering room service, myself."

"Were you? What a coincidence."

"You know what they say about great minds," he muses, making no move to search for his key card.

"So what are you thinking?" she asks, enjoying how quickly his eyebrows move into his hairline. "Just to prove your theory about great minds."

He steps into her space, stroking the neck of the champagne bottle.

"I'm thinking that's good champagne," he replies with a shrug. "And it would be a shame for any of it to go to waste."

"How considerate of you," she returns, sidling up a bit closer.

"I'm the considerate type," he returns slyly, the texture of his voice rubbing her like warm leather. "In fact, I thought perhaps we could both be considerate and save room service a trip by placing an order together. Saves them time and energy, you know."

She nods, grinning in spite of herself.

"That is considerate," she hums. "But I somehow suspect ulterior motives."

The right corner of his mouth draws up.

"And I suspect you're a terrible tease," he challenges, her eyes flashing at his challenge.

"You're the one who has invited yourself over for dinner," she observes, nudging a lock of hair out of his face.

"And you're the one keeping us out in this hallway," he whispers, making her shiver from the neck down.

"You're rather forward, aren't you?" she questions as her skin begins to heat.

"There's always a first time for everything, I suppose," he admits, and there is no question now that he is blushing.

"So what do you want for dinner?" she questions, backing into her door as he follows in step.

"Well, I suppose we could start with conversation and an appetizer and go from there."

He is close now, close enough for his scent to tickle her pores and his proximity to render her unsteady.

"So you're in the mood for several courses," she manages, uncertain of what is pushing her into this half-crazed boldness.

"Well, we do have an entire bottle of champagne," he returns, stroking the bottle's neck, his eyes fixed on her. "I think it's better to enjoy it slowly. Don't you?"

His lips touch down then, soft with unanswered questions, warm with spicy hints of abandon.

"As long as you don't pop the cork prematurely," she grins as their mouths separate, pushing her door open as he follows her inside.


	2. Chapter 2

_I never intended to continue this, but here you go. I do hope you enjoy it! :D_

* * *

She hears something, a noise she can't identify, and stretches languidly against the sheets, burrowing back into the pillow as her knee touches down on a thigh.

A thigh? A man's thigh? God—is that snoring she hears?

She props herself up as her eyes open in shock, and she blinks several times, taking in the smooth chest, the disheveled blonde hair, the mouth she begins to remember doing things between her thighs she can't quite believe she allowed on a first—

Shit. This wasn't even a first date. This is the stranger she met in the lift and invited into her hotel room after five minutes of flirtatious conversation. What the hell had she been thinking?

She feels slightly sore between her legs, nothing unpleasant but present all the same, and she blushes all over, laying back down and tugging the blankets up to her chin. Some good that will do now, she chastises herself, her muscles making it obvious to her they had enjoyed each other more than once. She rubs her temples, trying to remember more than fragments, smelling evidence of their antics on both her body and on his.

His mouth moves, and she stares at it again, recalling how it felt on her ear, on her neck, on her breast as he nipped and sucked her until she couldn't think. Shit, these memories aren't helping matters at all. They just make her want to cuddle up next to him and let him work her to an orgasm all over again.

How long has it been since she'd come at someone else's touch rather than her own? Too long. Far too long.

Until last night, that is.

She had faked it too often during her marriage and had been too repulsed by the thoughts of men in general after finding evidence of more than one affair on his part. But yesterday she'd felt liberated, ready to take on the world with divorce papers in hand, and she had tossed her wedding ring into the Thames, smiling broadly and laughing out loud. She had treated herself to lunch and the cinema and decided on a whim to buy a bottle of champagne and check into a hotel for the night.

And this is what had happened. The champagne bottle empty, another bottle of wine partially gone, and a night of wild sex she can barely remember. She rubs her aching temples with a sigh.

Either the noise or her movement stirs him and he rolls in her direction, one arm coming to lay across her stomach. Then his mouth moves into her shoulder and kisses her, though his eyes remain shut. She freezes, wishing she could remember his name as well as she could the color of his eyes. Blue. God, so blue it hurt. Is he still asleep, she wonders, as he settles back in and snores lightly yet again.

Should she try to sneak out and pretend this never happened? God, that would be easier if they were in his room instead of hers.

She rolls out from under his hold carefully, standing to her feet, shivering without the blankets as she searches for something to put on. She dresses as silently as she can, reasoning she can surely pack her one bag so quietly she doesn't disturb him, silently thanking fate that he is a heavy sleeper and she brought very little with her. Her hair is a wreck, but she doesn't let that stop her, sliding on her shoes and grabbing her purse and she tiptoes to the door. A click, a breath, and she is in the hallway, speed walking to the lift, afraid to look back.

The room card is turned in, her car brought around, and she drives home in silence, both congratulating herself on her exit and fighting off a disappointment she tries not to feel. Damn, he was good, this she knows, and she thinks he was funny and thoughtful, although most of their time together is still brushed over in a thick haze.

Oh well, she tells herself, she's better off without this complication, and she needs this time on her own. A man in her life will just make her lose herself, and that she cannot allow—not now, not again. Its better they didn't exchange phone numbers or personal information, at least she doesn't think that they did. No, this will simply be a night she tucks away and thinks about on occasion, a misstep into her new singleness, but a misstep she obviously enjoyed.

She walks into her house, sets her purse down and looks into it to place her keys inside its confines. Her breath catches, her mouth dries, as her hands begin to tremble in disbelief. Shit. Just shit.

She made it out of the hotel and back home undetected. But her wallet did not.


	3. Chapter 3

_Well, this installment obviously ran away with me. I hope nobody minds too badly. And remember-your thoughts and reviews are always most welcome._

_Thank you for being here and for taking time to read! Many hugs to all of my readers this lovely morning._

* * *

She really should pick up the contents of her purse.

They lie scattered across the kitchen floor where she had dumped them unceremoniously, cursing more during that one minute span while she tore through them than she has the entire past three months put together.

Shit. Just shit.

Her hands haven't stopped shaking since she returned, and she's certain she has worn a path on her kitchen floor, her mind continually trying to decipher just what she should do in order to retrieve her wallet from the hotel. If she waits long enough, it's possible her mystery man will check out on his own and turn it in to the front desk. But what if Mr. Tall, Blonde and Blue-eyed is not as nice as she somehow thinks that he is? What if he takes off with her ID and credit cards and uses them to romance some other woman in the next hotel he should happen upon?

Or what if he tracks her down here? At her house? What if he's a con man? A rapist? A serial–killer who meets his victims in hotel elevators or—

She jumps at the unexpected knock on her door.

God…oh, God…is it? Could it be? And if it is, what should she say? Should she invite him in? Try to offer up some sort of explanation for her unusual behavior last night? Or just grab her wallet and slam the door in his face?

The knock sounds once again, and she realizes in her shock that she hasn't moved from her spot at all. She forces herself to take one step forward, then another, her legs feeling like leaden weights, her heart pounding like a hammer on a hot tin roof. She reaches the door and rests a palm upon it nervously, breathing in and out, licking her lips before finally peering through the keyhole.

It's him. Dear God! She stares shamelessly and sees him raise his arm as if to knock again before thinking the better of it. He stands there a moment more, gazing oddly at the door, then rakes his hand through his hair, bites his lower lip and turns on his heel to walk away.

She opens the door before she can talk herself out of it.

"It's you," she manages breathlessly as he turns and gives her a nervous smile that nearly knocks her off-balance.

"It's me," he states, seemingly at as much of a loss as to what to say as she is. They remain immobile, staring at each other wordlessly before she clears her throat nervously.

"I'd ask how you found me, but…"

Her voice trails off as she gestures to her missing wallet, and he holds it out to her, finally moving back in her direction.

"It wasn't that difficult with this," he grins, laying it in her hand with a shrug. "I'd say I was flattered that you left me a road map to your place, but the nature of your exit this morning would deflate my ego rather quickly, I'm afraid."

Her face flushes, and she looks down at her feet.

"I'm sorry," she begins. "It wasn't personal. I just don't do that sort of thing, I mean usually. Not that I think badly of you if you do, but…"

"I've never done anything like that in my life," he cuts in, his face even redder than hers feels. They both laugh breathlessly, looking back and forth at each other, catching and missing stolen glances as she tucks a lock of wayward hair behind her ear. "Trust me. I'm as flabbergasted by my behavior as you are by yours. And I'm still trying to piece together all that did happen, actually."

Something tight gives way in her chest, and she breathes easier, feeling more at ease with the entire situation than she logically should.

"Me, too," she breathes, and they look at each other directly. It hits her then, what she saw in him last night, what prompted her to throw caution to the wind and grab a hold of this man before she changed her mind. "Would you like to come in?"

"Would I?" he grins, shaking his head and looking rather embarrassed. "I mean, I would, thank you."

The stand immobile a moment more, neither of the speaking, neither moving to go inside.

"I'm Matthew, by the way," he offers, bringing her out of her man-induced stupor.

"Matthew," she echoes before berating herself for sounding like a star-struck co-ed. "I'm…"

"Mary," he interrupts, pointing towards her wallet. "I managed to figure that one out for myself."

She smiles then, even laughs, and he joins her, the expression on his face one that could easily get her into trouble again.

"Come in, won't you?" she offers, stepping back into her doorway and indicating that is alright for him to do so. He follows her into her front room, looking around a bit before returning his gaze back to her.

"This is lovely," he observes, indicating the room around him.

"I know," she agrees. "I can't wait to sell it."

He smiles in acknowledgement, staring at a bare spot on the wall where a large photograph obviously once hung.

"I know your divorce has just been finalized," he begins. "I do remember that much, at least. And I know how difficult and confusing a time that can be. But…"

He pauses, summoning the courage to continue as he rubs the back of his neck.

"I'd very much like to call you sometime," he finishes, his ears now the color of Rudolph's nose. "If that's alright with you, that is."

Her pulse pounds in her ear drums, her throat now as dry as the Sahara.

"I mean, seeing that neither of us are one-night-stand sort of people," he continues. "But as we've already actually had the one-night-stand, it only reasons that we should at least have dinner sometime in the near future. Don't you think?"

"To rectify the situation?" she questions, drawn closer to him than is wise.

"Absolutely," he breathes, clearing his throat to erase the slight squeak in his voice. "I wouldn't want you to worry that I had taken advantage of you. Just for sex, that is."

She nearly giggles at how he whispers the word _sex_, as if they hadn't behaved in a completely wanton manner just hours ago.

"Or I you," she adds. "After all, I'm the one who brought the champagne."

"True," he agrees, his eyes widening mischievously. "Although I'm fairly certain the wine was my idea."

"Ah," she sighs. "Well that explains it."

"Explains what?" he asks, somehow closer now than he was five seconds ago.

"Why it was white instead of red," she grins, and he chuckles, the sound of it making her thighs tingle.

He steps in a fraction closer, and she realizes with a start just how good he smells. Damn it. This is quickly turning into a slippery slope with nothing to grab on to for traction.

"So you're a red wine enthusiast?" he notes, his voice now the texture of honey. "That's good to know."

"Why?" she queries. "Are you planning on getting me drunk again?"

He chuckles a second time, and it's even more intoxicating at his close proximity.

"No," he insists with a marked grin. "I'll be on my best behavior, I promise. I plan on remembering every detail of our first date."

A stimulating shiver rolls down her spine, and she bites her lower lip, stifling a laugh.

"So if we haven't had our first date yet, what should we call last night?"

She has somehow ended up nearly nose to nose with him, her hands now resting on his chest, his hands rubbing her arms, making her tremble, making her ache.

"A kickoff?" he suggests, and she guffaws out loud. He joins in, his arms now snaking around her waist in a stance that feels far too natural. "What? Do you have a better idea?"

"Well, you did kick off your trousers," she notes, and his cheeks turn bright pink on cue. "So I suppose it's somewhat appropriate."

"And here I was hoping that you pulled them off," he manages, the temperature notching up several degrees all at once. "Wishful thinking and all."

Her skin begins to overheat, sensations that drug her under last night rising as fast as the tide during a hurricane.

"Well, if I pulled off your trousers, who divested me of my clothes?"

His mouth is so close now, too close, and she smells peppermint on his breath, it's sharp, refreshing scent beckoning her silently to taste him.

"That would be me, I'm afraid," he confesses, his lips just out of reach of hers. "I actually do remember having difficulty with your bra."

Her nipples harden as his palm cups her face.

"Front closure," she breathes as his mouth nudges hers.

"So I discovered," he hums as his fingers work their way across her jaw and into her hair. Her eyes close, her lips part, and he is kissing her, the feel of his tongue in her mouth the most erotic sensation she's ever known. Then her back is pressed up against the wall, her hands are tugging his shirt from his waistband, and all of her reasoning is flying off to hell as his lips trail a path down her neck towards her breasts.

"I didn't plan this, you know," he murmurs, drawing back far enough so that their foreheads just touch. "When I knocked on your door. I mean, I was hoping you would agree to go out with me, but…"

"Kiss me," she pants, unwilling to entertain any notion besides what he is doing to her body and senses. He lifts her up from the floor, her legs wrapping tightly around his middle as he hoists her securely about his waist. She's falling into him again, this man she just met, but she doesn't care, doesn't want to stop, and she shoos away what remains of logic and the traces of her upbringing, feeling far too much to stop now.

"Upstairs," she instructs, and he makes a noise in his throat that thrills her, carrying her up the steps at a ridiculous pace, not letting her go until they fall into a breathless and tangled heap on her bed, making the mattress squeak in protest at their descent.

* * *

"So much for never doing this," she muses, sticky and sweaty and thoroughly, thoroughly sated. He tosses her that chuckle again, and she knows then that it could be her undoing. That and those bloody blue eyes of his.

"My mother would be appalled," he grins, turning on his side to face her fully. "At my behavior, that is. Not at you."

She flicks him a brow, and he smiles all the broader, looking downright boyish before he leans in for a kiss.

There's nothing boyish about the way this man kisses her.

"So now it would seem that I must technically ask you out for two dates," he continues, drawing some odd sort of line down her chest towards the swell of her breast. "Seeing as though we've now done this twice."

"I'm fairly certain we did it more than once at the hotel," she notes softly, her cheeks heating at the admission. He tosses her a look then, one she can't quite decipher.

"Twice," he states with confidence, and she stares back at him in confusion. "At least, that's how many condoms were used."

She mouths an _oh _as her mind scurries to fill in the blanks, rather amazed that they were cognizant enough to use protection. She knows they did more than just engage in intercourse, however, and she remembers the feel of his mouth against her, the feel of his fingers and his cock inside of her, recalls various positions and movements as if she is peering into a past life.

"I'm clean, by the way," he adds quickly, the tips of his ears turning red, and she leans in to kiss him, her fingers working their way into his hair. "Just so you know."

"So am I," she whispers with assurance. "And I have an IUD. So…" She pauses, biting her bottom lip as he watches her closely. "It wasn't really necessary, the way things were with my marriage. But there was no way in hell I wanted to end up pregnant."

"I'm sorry things were so difficult for you," he states, caressing her arm.

"Don't be," she says with a sigh. "Trust me. I'm far better off without him." She pauses, biting her lower lip as the realization that her bed has seen more action today than it has in over a year washes over her. "And I had myself checked after I found out about his escapades. Just to be certain."

His brow creases in disbelief, and he stares back at her as if she has just spoken to him in Chinese.

"Your husband cheated?" he questions, shaking his head. "On you?"

She smiles at his obvious shock, pulling his mouth to hers with a fever that stuns her.

"Several times," she answers, drawing back for air. "So I kicked him out."

He looks at her in wonder, taking her hand within his own.

"Your wife?" she questions softly, hoping she hasn't pressed too far.

"We just grew apart," he shrugs, kissing her fingers gently. "We married young, too young. I went to law school, she went into education. And one day I woke up and wondered just who I had married and who the hell I had become. It was the most terrifying moment of my life."

He sighs, gazing back at her.

"It turns out that she had been feeling the same way for some time but hadn't wanted to say anything," he expounds. "So we decided to part ways. It hurt like hell."

Her stomach tightens at the realization of how drastically different his marriage had been from her own.

"I can imagine," she responds, cupping the side of his face. "Do you keep in touch?"

"Somewhat," he answers, his gaze falling to the rumpled sheets. "Anyway, she got engaged a few weeks ago," he adds with a shrug. "I'm happy for her. Truly."

"Then you're a good man," she states, smiling up at him.

"So does that mean you'll go out with me?" he tries with a coy grin, shifting gears unexpectedly. "I believe we're up to three dates now, if I'm counting correctly."

"Three dates?" she shoots back in mock horror. "Just a moment ago, you asked for two."

"That was before we ascertained that we have actually had sex three times instead of two," he reasons with the finesse of an attorney. "That we can account for, that is."

She blushes all over as the absurdity of their situation hits her yet again.

"So does this mean that there will be no sex on these three dates?" she asks, watching his brows draw up comically. "To even things out, as it were? I mean, if we keep having sex every time we see each other, we never will catch up."

"God, that could be a problem," he notes, gazing back at her in all seriousness. "Seeing as we seem to have difficulty in keeping our hands off each other."

"As well as other body parts," she quips, drawing an appreciative smirk across his face.

"Touché," he acknowledges. He inhales audibly, his brows drawing together tightly for effect. "Perhaps we should establish some parameters, sexual parameters, as it were."

She gazes back at him, wondering just where he is going with this and why she feels absolutely no need to protest.

"Such as?"

"Well," he expounds. "All sex that happens in the same location within a twenty-four hour period only counts once."

She fights back a grin with some determination.

"Go on," she instructs, settling into her pillow.

"Sex in the shower doesn't count," he suggests. "I mean, it counts, but not against the date tally."

"I understand," she assures him. "Anything else?"

"Well, we could simply agree that as long as the tally remains unbalanced with sex in the lead, we'll have to continue seeing each other." He gages her for a reaction, the slight twitching of his nose making her giggle like a school girl.

"And if the date count surpasses the sex count?" she muses, enjoying herself far too much.

"We'll just have to have more sex," he reasons without missing a beat, making her laugh in earnest and toss her head back on the pillow.

"Do you realize how ridiculous we sound?" she questions, watching as his shoulders begin to shake in time with hers. "Trying to justify the fact that we both thoroughly enjoy what we're doing even though it's completely absurd and unlike us?"

His chuckle gets to her again, and she allows him to draw her into his chest as he hovers over top of her just so.

"My mother would be so proud," he quips. "Seeing how well law school has paid off in my ability to justify anything."

She laughs then and kisses him, feeling free and unhindered, like a wild thing let out of a cage after years of confinement.

"I do want to date you, you know," he states, all joking now set aside. "More than once. More than twice. More than three times. Sex or no sex, I want to get to know you better, Mary. I like how being with you makes me feel."

Her pulse gets away from her, her mind running carelessly, trying to catch up.

"So do I," she whispers, amazed at how effortlessly the words tumble from her mouth. "It's odd how easy I am with you."

A burst of laughter escapes through his nose just as she realizes what she has implied.

"You know what I mean," she retorts, socking him gently in the shoulder.

"Ouch," he exclaims, rubbing the spot where she has just struck him. "That wasn't so easy."

"Good," she states with a nod. "It wasn't meant to be." She looks at him then, into those eyes, into what she knows contains possibilities, shivering at the depth of what is looking back at her. "And yes—I'll go out with you. I do have a reputation to uphold."

His brows wiggle back at her, and she rolls her eyes at him.

"And I do prefer the sex with date option," he adds with a grin. "Just so you know."

Her heart melts a little, absorbing the care it has been lacking like drought-ridden soil under its first rain.

"So do I," she admits with an odd trace of shyness. "And it would be a shame for both of us to be disappointed, wouldn't it."

"A horrible shame," he agrees. "Tragic, in fact."

Their kiss is warm and unhurried, and she finds herself completely under him at its conclusion, the sensation of his body on top of hers more addicting than any drug could ever be.

"Shall we shower, then?" she asks, a wicked expression stealing across her face. "Seeing as it won't count against us on the date tally."

He kisses her again, drawing it out, holding her close, making her cling to him with a need vastly different than any she has ever known.

"Lead the way," he agrees with a smile as they both roll out of bed and make their way to the next room. He then grins at her, reaching into his pants pocket as he bites his lower lip. "I even managed to swipe some soap from the hotel."

"Souvenir?" she inquires with a tilt of her head.

"Well, you didn't leave me a glass slipper," he notes, chasing her toward the shower, making her squeal as she whacks him with a towel.

* * *

Her robe feels more decadent than usual, her skin more alight, her senses more alert. She has left him in the bedroom to make them some tea, and she rummages through her cabinets in search of a suitable snack.

God. How commonplace and domestic this all seems on the heels of something that borders on insane.

Her thighs are still tingling, and she's certain that place on her neck he likes so well may be marked for a few days. She draws the collar of her robe up self-consciously, shaking her head yet again at their entire situation. Who would imagine that she—Mary Crawley Carlisle—would have a man she barely knows freshly showered and upstairs in her bedroom, enjoying more sex with him in less than one day than she had for years with Richard?

Nobody, she muses. And she least of all.

A knock on her door draws her attention, her spine straightening in a flash. She isn't expecting anyone else, and she looks at the clock as if its numbers will give her some answers. Who in God's name could it be?

She pulls her robe securely around body, making her way cautiously to the door, realizing with a start that but a couple of hours ago, the man now draped naked across her bed was standing on her doorstep.

Has her life ever been quite this insane? The answer is glaringly obvious.

Then she jumps as the knob turns on its own, a key working it open from the outside.

"Mary!" a cheerful voice exclaims in surprise as blue eyes stare back at her in wonder. "I didn't think you'd be here."

Her entire body stiffens, her heart rate accelerating far too quickly.

"Mama," she manages as the other woman embraces her in a hug, her mind now reeling in one thousand directions at once.

Her mother is here. Matthew is upstairs.

What in God's name is she supposed to do now?


	4. Chapter 4

"What are you doing here?"

Cora stares back at her eldest daughter, looking far too pleased with herself as she sets down a bottle of champagne.

"Celebrating your divorce," her mother answers. "What else?"

"Now?"

The word sputters out before she can think.

"Yes, now," Cora returns as she lays a basket on Mary's kitchen counter. "Unless you're otherwise occupied."

Mary's mouth moves wordlessly, and she glances over her shoulder towards the steps, wishing a certain naked man she'd left sprawled out on her mattress possessed the ability to pick up her danger signals telepathically.

"Is something wrong?" Cora questions. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes," Mary gushes, pasting on as bright as smile as she can muster. "I'm fine. Why?"

"Well, you're in a robe," Cora answers with a shrug. "Even though it's nearly lunch time. And you're flushed. Are you certain you don't have a fever?"

"I'm certain," Mary insists, backing up a step as her mother reaches out to touch her cheek. "I'm fine, Mama. I just slept in today, that's all."

Cora eyes her closely, finally stepping back with a satisfied nod.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it."

She lets out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"You deserve to pamper yourself, Mary," Cora continues with a smile. "And to be spoiled, which is why we're here today."

"We?" The word nearly chokes her, and she looks over her mother's shoulder towards the front door. "Who else is here, Mama?"

"Why your father, of course," Cora grins. "And your grandmother, Edith, Sybil and Tom, although the Bransons are running a bit behind."

This cannot be happening. God, her family never stops by for a surprise visit, but today of all days, the first day in her life she'd indulged in a one-night stand that bled over into the next day, the first morning in years she'd done more in the shower than simply wash her hair, they show up on her doorstep with an instant party in tow. How is this possible?

She forces herself to swallow, panic-tinged bile pushing up her throat.

"Then let me go and change," she manages, praying her expression is far calmer than her stomach.

"Of course," Cora returns as she moves back to the front door. "I'll just go and help your father bring everything in."

Shit. Just shit.

The door clicks shut, but her feet won't move, and she breathes in and out, trying to figure out what the hell they're going to do. Locking Matthew in the closet seems to be her best option, but would he go for that? After all, sharing space with racks of shoes probably wouldn't appeal to most men, and this is one man she'd like to keep around, at least for a while. Climbing out the bedroom window is risky, and the only route to the back door would bring him directly into her family's line of fire. She inhales deeply to rouse her nerve, turning towards the stairs when warm arms securely ensnare her around her waist.

"Whoever it was finally left, I see," he mutters into her ear, his voice rubbing her like warm velvet, his mouth gliding up and down her neck. "I'm so glad."

"Matthew," she begins, pushing on his arms to no avail. "You have to stop this…"

"Quite the contrary," he hums into her skin, sliding one side of her robe over her shoulder. "Remember, sex that occurs on the same day in the same location…"

He is cut off by the front door flying open, his head shooting upwards as she tenses all over. Cheerful conversation pauses in a flash as four pairs of perfectly rounded eyes stare back at them without blinking.

"I see you were otherwise occupied," Cora utters before clearing her throat. Mary's stomach drops to her knees, and she pulls her robe back over her shoulder, fully cognizant of the fact that whether or not that part of her anatomy is exposed really doesn't matter anymore.

"Oh, God," Matthew mutters under his breath. She couldn't have said it any better herself.

"What on earth?" her father cries out, and she feels Matthew's grip on her tighten, wondering if she should pull away from him or simply stay where she is. She supposes it doesn't really matter. The truth of their situation is painfully obvious.

"It would appear Mary started the party without us," her grandmother cuts in. "I think we missed the best part, unfortunately."

"Are you surprised, Granny?" Edith retorts, far too delighted by her sister's discomfort. "Mary always keeps the juiciest bits to herself."

Sweat beads across her forehead, her throat now the texture of sandpaper. Would anyone notice if she simply melted into the floor?

"Don't be crass, Edith," Violet snaps back, claiming a chair at the table. "It's not at all flattering, you know." The older woman turns her full attention to Mary, pointing at Matthew with the flick of a brow. "Well, Mary. Are you planning on introducing us to your _amant mystere, _or are we simply supposed to stare at his chest and try to guess his name?"

She clears her throat, tugging the robe even tighter around her neck.

"Granny," she begins, her voice too wobbly for her liking. "Everyone—this is Matthew."

She senses his embarrassment, feeling it rub up against her own as he clutches the towel firmly around his waist. God, if it were to drop now, it would be the final straw.

"And does Matthew have a last name?" Violet questions.

"Crawley," Matthew answers. "It's Crawley."

Mary spins around to stare at him in shock, the rest of her family mimicking her in tandem.

"Is something wrong?" he asks her, he gaze flittering between her and her relatives. "Besides the obvious, that is?"

"Crawley is our name," Robert cuts in, stepping directly towards them. "Are you telling me that the two of you have been having sexual relations without even bothering to exchange surnames?"

She wants to run from the room screaming, but she forces herself to stand her ground, eyeing her father directly as she draws herself up taller.

"Of course we have," Mary insists. "He's Matthew Crawley."

"And she's Mary Carlisle," Matthew utters, his tone a bit unsteady. "Although not for much longer, thank God."

It would be just her luck if it turned out that she'd just had the best sex of her life with her second cousin. Shit. Just shit.

"God, Mary," Edith snorted. "Are you so desperate that you've taken to banging potential relatives?"

"Edith," Cora reprimands, tossing her daughter a look that could scald an iceberg. "That's enough."

"Who is your father, Matthew?" Robert interjects, stepping in so close that Mary backs directly into Matthew's torso. "Perhaps we can sort this out before it goes any further, although it seems to have gone too far already."

Her stomach flips over a couple of times, her head spinning in a misguided attempt to keep up.

"Reginald Crawley," Matthew answers, his mortified heat pressing up against her back. "From Manchester."

"Reginald, is it?" Violet mutters, trying the name out on her tongue to see if it suits her. "The physician?"

Mary turns to see Matthew nodding, and she wonders if the fact that Granny knows his father is a good thing or the pealing of bells announcing her impending doom.

"He's a very distant cousin, Robert, but not enough of one to matter when it comes to...well, you know," Violet volunteers with a shrug. "Carry on, then, Mary."

"She is not going to carry on," Robert interjects, his voice rising in volume. "Are you?"

"At least not while we're in the house," Edith mutters just as Cora shoots visual daggers in her direction.

"Well," Violet murmurs. "It would be a bit crowded."

"Do you suppose it would be alright if Matthew and I went up to change now?" Mary manages, so far past the point of embarrassment she's bordering on numbness. Numb would actually be preferable to how she's feeling at the moment, like she's living that nightmare of standing in the middle of Piccadilly Circus in nothing but a sheer bra and knickers.

Yes. Numbness does possess a certain morbid appeal.

"I'd recommend it," Violet answers with a shrug. "Before Sybil and Tom arrive."

"You called?"

Shit. Too late. She slides right past numbness into out and out panic.

Tom's voice echoes from the front door, and Mary turns towards Matthew, burying her head into his shoulder, wondering if this entire situation could get any worse just before it unbelievably does.

"Matthew? Matthew Crawley? What in God's name are you doing here?"

She prays she doesn't get sick all over Matthew's chest. God—wouldn't that just be icing on the cake?

"Tom?" Matthew answers. "Is that you?"

Mary turns to face her sister and brother-in-law, avoiding Sybil's broad grin like the bubonic plague, attempting to stare at Tom's hairline rather than directly into his eyes.

"You two know each other, I take it?" Robert questions, looking from one man to the other.

"I doubt Tom knows him in the same sense as Mary does," Edith murmurs, earning herself a whack on the arm from Cora.

"That would make this entire situation even more interesting," Violet adds, chuckling to herself under her breath.

"Matthew and I work out together," Tom explains. "We go to the same gym." He tries to contain the smile tugging at his mouth, the result being that he looks a bit like a puppy trying not to pee on the floor. "I had no idea that you and Mary, ah…knew each other."

"We didn't," Matthew replies, his directness nearly making her choke. "Until recently, that is."

"Well then," Violet hums. "Now that everything is so nice and cozy, perhaps we could break out the food."

"Yes," Cora exclaims, clearly relieved by the change of topic. "Sybil, Edith—will you help me unpack the sandwiches?"

Sybil coughs and sputters, her face turning three shades of purple before she finally barks out a loud cackle. Violet couldn't look any more pleased, her father is still the color of a ripe turnip, and her mother is as ashen-faced as Mary has ever seen her.

What a fine afternoon for a party.

"Of course, Mama," Sybil manages, just as Tom and Edith break out laughing with her. "How shall we arrange everything?"

"Over-easy would be my suggestion," Edith mutters, this time getting whacked by Violet herself.

"Hard-boiled would be more like it," Tom quips, ducking behind his pregnant wife to distance himself from Cora's wrath.

"Well, we did bring quite a spread," Sybil manages between fits of laughter, making Mary roll her eyes as discussions ensue.

"Don't mind us," she utters as she and Matthew turn and make their way up the steps, her words lost in the din of family conversation. "We'll just be getting dressed."

She nearly pushes him up the stairs, breaking into a sprint once they reach the top.

"Do you think they'll even notice we've gone?" Matthew asks as they round the corner to her bedroom, finally shutting the door behind them and sucking precious air into their lungs.

"Don't even think about it, you two," Sybil's voice cries out from beneath the floor boards. "We can hear you, you know."

They gaze at each other, brow for brow, stare for stare, mortification meeting amusement head on.

"Does that answer your question?" Mary asks, leaning against her wall as she attempts to catch her breath. "Oh, God, Matthew. What are we going to do now?"

"Well," he utters with a small shrug. "If they already think we're going at it again…"

He slides two steps in her direction, the impossible grin on his face tempting her to smack it off and kiss the hell out of him at the same time.

"Put your trousers on, Don Juan," she retorts, whacking him with his pants just as his towel drops to the floor. "I think we've hit our limit for today."


	5. Chapter 5

To say their first official date was proving to be an unmitigated disaster would be accurate.

"Stop pacing," Mary hisses, clearly exhausted by the argument Matthew has been having with the maitre d for the past ten minutes. "Just sit down and relax for a moment."

"I can't relax," he fumes, pretending not to notice the eye roll she tosses his way. "And this is ridiculous. I made these reservations days ago, and that bastard practically accused me of lying…"

"It's not that big of a deal," she cuts in, nodding politely as an older couple walks past them. "He didn't accuse you of lying, he just has no record of our reservation."

"He only asked me four times if I was certain I had the right restaurant," he huffs. "Then the right date, the right time, as if I were a moron who can't tell the difference between the time and my ass."

She shushes him pointedly as a woman passes by them, her hostility so acute at this point he can practically smell it from where he stands.

"There are other restaurants in the city," she continues, working to keep her voice steady, but still slicing him right where it hurts. "And most of them don't require reservations. Let's just go."

"That's not the point, Mary," he shoots back, doing everything he can to keep his blood pressure from boiling over. "I made these reservations because you mentioned how badly you've been wanting to try this place. I did this for you."

He face softens somewhat, even as her spine remains ramrod straight.

"And that's very sweet of you," she acknowledges. "But there's nothing written in stone that says if we don't eat here tonight, we'll never be allowed to return."

"That's not the point," he reiterates, making her sigh as she throws up her arms.

"Then what is the point?" she asks, clearly at a loss. "Because I'm starving, and if we need to find another place to eat, I'd rather do so sooner rather than later."

"The point is that we may have been having amazing sex, but this is our first real date."

The words come out far louder than he'd intended, and she whips her head around nervously, trying to make certain none of the patrons or servers had overheard his outburst. No trays collapse, no dishes break, and she begins to rub her temples, probably wishing she was anywhere in London right now besides sitting here with him. His shoulders collapse, and he moves beside her, exhaling loudly as he sits down, hoping she won't push him away or smack him across the face.

She does neither.

"I'm sorry."

He sighs as she shrugs, and he rubs his face as she folds her arms tightly across her lap, continuing to stare daggers at him. God, she's gorgeous, and refined, intelligent, witty-everything a man could ever want in a woman, and she smells sensational to boot. The fact that her kisses are a narcotic and that she's actually out on a date with him is enough to make his head spin, not to mention the fact that he's been enjoying the best sex of his life in her arms and in her bed.

"I just wanted to make it special for you," he breathes, his own hands falling into his lap. "Meeting you was the last thing on my mind, but now that it's happened, I…" He pauses, feeling his ears start to burn under her scrutiny as his insides continue to churn. "I just don't want you to wake up one morning and realize that you can do a lot better than me."

He feels her hand touch down on top of his, and he dares a look in her direction, amazed at the vulnerability he sees there.

"You don't have to wine and dine me at Gordon Ramsay's for me to stay with you," she whispers. "I'm just as happy grabbing some Indian food and taking a walk through Hyde Park." He squeezes her hand, feeling a welcome warmth spread through his body like quicksilver. "Richard took me to more than my fair share of fancy restaurants, and I was absolutely miserable with him."

"But you deserve this," he says, his gaze dropping to where their fingers intertwine. "You deserve the best, Mary, and Richard was an idiot and an ass for not seeing that." He knows her ex-husband treated her like shit, and that knowledge makes him want to right everything for her, to help her remember just what an exquisite creature she is, to give her the world and everything in it he can possibly afford.

"This," she states, waving her hand to indicate the restaurant, "doesn't make me happy. But this…" She leans in then and claims his mouth gently, teasing him, opening her mouth to him, melting into him with a soft moan that goes straight to his crotch. "This does."

Then he's kissing her, the thought of not kissing her impossible to entertain, and his arms wrap around her instinctively, pulling her closer, allowing him to deepen the kiss even further as one of her feet begin to rub up and down the side of his leg. He's going to be sporting quite a stiffie if they keep this up, but he can't bring himself to care as her fingers work their way into his scalp and her tongue does that thing that drives him absolutely insane.

"Excuse me, sir."

He hears someone clear his throat and breaks away from Mary long enough to spy the maitre d standing over them, staring down at them as if they were two teenagers he'd caught snogging.

"Yes?" Matthew returns, feeling Mary's thumb wipe away what must be lipstick from his chin.

"I have managed to straighten out the problem of your reservation," the maitre d continues, clearing his throat yet again. "Or lack of one, as it were, and I'm delighted to inform you that we shall be able to seat you in just a few minutes."

He turns towards Mary, grinning as her brows knit together into something that resembles a refined pout.

"Thank you," Matthew says, moving away from Mary long enough to sand and offer her his hand. "But we've decided to go elsewhere for dinner."

The look of shock on the poor man's face is worth the past fifteen minutes of strife, and Matthew is suddenly giddly, feeling as if he's walking on air as Mary tosses him a wink and they turn towards the door. They just make it outside before they bursting into laughter, and he tugs her back for a quick kiss, growing harder as she throws her arms about her him and kisses him back with gusto.

"So where are we going now?" she asks, pulling back far enough to take stock of their current location, her stomach growling as if on cue.

"I don't care," he grins, pulling her close and nipping at her ear. "As long as they have room service."


End file.
